sweet cream and sunshine yellow
by sunny-umbrella
Summary: During the day (night?) of the second to third day of the Inter-High. Midousuji discovers a reason to come back.


Midousuji Akira did not understand Onoda Sakamichi.

_Gross_, he hissed to himself, _Gross little otaku boy. He doesn't understand. None of them do._

But he had smiled, like he always seemed to do, smiled as he climbed up steep hills and smooth slopes, chasing after Midousuji for a chance to talk about _zaku _and _Crimson Commanders_ and disgusting anime things like that.

He was glad when he did win, though. His skill was still there, despite his knee and his teeth and all of the disasters he couldn't calculate today.

It gave Midousuji a strange, cramping feeling in his stomach, made his head buzz with confusion, as he followed the lonely light on his bicycle back to Kyoto.

Road racing is—was—painful. You fell down; no one helped you up. You could pedal until your knees fell apart and your teeth shattered from the effort, but there was always someone in the way, always, _always!_

Even that Onoda otaku. He didn't even try as hard in races as he did when there was anime at stake. Why? Why would you waste your energy moving forward by devoting yourself to such a fruitless task? You could keep a medal or plaque forever, Midousuji knew this. You kept it, even after your _mother _died, you kept that permanent reminder, that promise you made to win.

And yet. Onoda Sakamichi didn't ride to win. He still thought it was fun.

_Fun?_

Onoda had never ridden in the dark on the way back from the hospital, falling and scraping and bruising himself uncountable times. Onoda biked to gross little shops in Akihibara, probably, buying gross little gadgets and figurines and DVDs. He had never ridden a race, pouring out every bit of muscle and energy into winning, and been told that his mother had died during it.

Not knowing that one day, while she was being wheeled into the ER, that it would be the last time you heard her golden voice.

Midousuji eased to a stop; his mask was inching its way down his face. Irritated, he yanked it up again, and felt wetness on his cheeks.

_Just the wind_, he reasoned. _The disgusting wind is making you tear up like this._

He steadfastly ignored the fact that, at the pace he had been pedaling at, the wind was nothing compared to what he had endured before. For road racing.

The road was dark, but the three fresh AA batteries he put into his aging light were satisfactory for the job he had bought them for. Wan and shaking, the illumination wavered over the rough road.

_His voice had been yellow, too._

He hissed at that thought. Only his mother's voice was yellow. It wasn't allowed. There couldn't be anyone with the same yellow as her.

Midousuji reconsidered.

If he had to further categorize, his mother's voice was a pale cream, sweet and easy on the ear. It was why he had ridden every day during the summer, why he had taken up road racing, to stand at her bedside and drink in her words, saving them, treasuring each and every one.

Onoda's? He thought for a moment, letting the slight breeze run through his hair. Without the helmet, it felt almost naked, foreign, weak.

Onoda Sakamichi's voice was sunshine yellow. Loud and exuberant, with no end, it was like the brutal sun that had beaten down on the participants during the Inter-High. There was no escaping the enthusiastic sound; no matter how hard you biked, it would always be there, _he _would always be there.

He glanced behind him, suddenly paranoid that Onoda had decided to follow him even this far. The moonlight showed only the road he had been on, the pharmacy just a distant speck of light.

But in a way, he welcomed the sun. No weak, skittering light showing the way. Bright sunshine, showcasing his opponents' losses in all their glory.

He stopped the bike again, easing off of it to stand in the middle of the road. No cars were idiotic enough to attempt the mountain passes in near darkness; the road was empty, except for him and his road racer.

Wasn't it supposed to be sunny for the third day? No clouds, just the heat pressing down on the riders, stealing their energy, fatiguing them.

But the heat meant nothing to Midousuji Akira. Conditions like this were nothing compared to that one downpour, during the race. He could almost hear her voice, see her smiling to hide her pain from him. _My little boy, off to win another race. He's so talented, my little Akira._

He wheeled the bike around, stepping onto the pedals as he set off for the pharmacy. He wouldn't let those gross riders from Sohoku and Hakone beat him. Onoda wouldn't—couldn't!—stand a chance against him, not while Weakling-zumi was agonizing over his silly non-existent rivalry.

He felt like laughing, felt a smile spread behind the mask. Pathetic! How could he have been so pathetic? He had no reason to stop racing tomorrow, absolutely none.

Not while the sun could shine for him.


End file.
